When Will I Be Like My Mother?

I often find myself in the dimness of my dining room, just standing there. There is no “to the side” in there, just a middle. My dogs skirt past me, their tails like feathers across my unshaven legs. Brian walks past me in a whir to go make some coffee, prepare lunch, or to get to his at-home office where he’s working. I say sorry a lot with a slight laugh, I don’t know what to do with myself!

So, I’ll dip my hands into the sink and wash dishes. I bought totes to store things away because, well, that’s something. I moved a pile of books from one place and put them in another place and called that success. I planted vegetables and managed to crack a smile at my dirty hands and feet. I take the garbage out. I always do my laundry but only sometimes put my clean laundry away, all the while feeling so zero at the bone.

My heart pounds. My hands tremble a little here and there. My stomach is in knots. My breathing quivers.

I often find myself on the couch, binge-watching an unrealistic show about women around my age finding success in NYC despite all of the mistakes they make. Things are always glamorous and somehow working out. I know it’s unrealistic. It’s not a life I want at all but my mind still reels. I can’t wait until I’m not watching it anymore.

I find myself Googling the most stupid shit: Jeff Goldblum’s annual income; Am I the only person who thinks that “The Flash” television series has horrible writing? (I only half-paid attention to one episode that Brian was watching); Why did Brianna Madia and her husband split up?; What is pegging?; Jeff Probst’s relationship status; Candid photos of Raven-Simone 2020.

Stupid shit. But also terribly normal.

And meanwhile, the sun is shining outside. It’s hot. This is typically when I thrive and sweat. It’s when I bend down to my haunches and observe. It’s when I gingerly turn over a rock or leaf, exposing some kind of rooted or winged magic. It’s when I thrill over storms but lately I’ve just been settling for the clouds I see to the south from my patio.

I talk to my mother who has undergone many sad human things: Emotionally abused as a child; cheated on; divorce; raising my sister as a single mother; depression and despair; the death of both parents; the slow decline and death of her sister from ALS; the slow death of her eldest daughter from cancer. By all means does she still hurt, but she hurts with such grace that I can't help but wonder if I'll inherit it. I’m currently at the age when she gave birth to me. She was raising one daughter, married to my father, and coddling infantile me at this very age where I am staring at walls in my dining room and trying to find some force inside me. Still feeling infantile. She knows what this is that I am going through, as do millions of other people.

I have depression.

But I also have a wedding to plan.

I have a honeymoon to re-think due to Covid-19.

I have trails to walk and ride.

I have insects to admire. I have less than a handful of friends to show up for. I have parents to take care of.

I have a job to perform as well as I can.

I have sun to absorb.

I have anxiety to maintain.

I have dogs to love and protect.

I have a future husband to adore and stand by.

And especially in these strange times of sheltering, a despicable presidential administration, BLM, and trying to reach out as often as I can to those I have not been able to see, depression feels like such a privileged, selfish thing.

I figure that I just need to plan my time better but my body is running on a clock counter-intuitive to my mind. I sit on the couch and have several hours to do as I please, which I realize is a privilege. I could at least take a stroll outside. I could at least read a page in a book. I could crochet a few rows in my afghan. I could go on a short trail run. I could write a letter to a friend. I could consume something other than coffee.

But I don’t.

What a waste and But it’s okay, I’ll be okay are in the same sentence in my internal dialogue. Because when it comes to depression, there are facts to remember:

You’re still loved.

You’re still loveable.

You’re still needed (in the small scheme of things)

You can still do something.

But if you know anything about depression, you know that facts and feelings are two hands on two different bodies. I know I’m loved but know that when I’m like this, I can become unloved. I know I’m loveable but when going through this, I can become unloveable. I know I’m needed in various ways, but I can be replaced. I know I can do things, but even doing the things I love is like reaching out my hand, but my hand isn’t there.

And in these hands are all the right tools. I know what the tools are and know how to use them. My mother has taught me how to use them. Experience from episodes past have taught me how to use them. But the thing is, my hands don’t work. My brain can send the signal to one hand to clench the tool and twist but instead my mind clenches and twists and the other hand drops the tools, not knowing how to hold on.

I was determined last night that I’d wake up this morning and go for a bike ride. That I won’t come home until I’ve ridden 20 miles. That this will make me feel so good, so invigorated.

I did not.

What a waste. But it’s okay, I’ll be okay.